


My Memory Has Just Been Sold

by Mr_Customs_Man



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Genderfluid Character, Good Omens Kink Meme, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Customs_Man/pseuds/Mr_Customs_Man
Summary: Sometime in the 1950s, Crowley gets an idea to inspire Lust to the masses by convincing Hugh Hefner to start Playboy magazine with Crowley as one of the original Playmates. Aziraphale happens across her centerfold one day.For the Good Omens Kink Omen





	My Memory Has Just Been Sold

**Author's Note:**

> The original promt: "Sometime in the 1950s, Crowley gets an idea to inspire Lust to the masses by convincing Hugh Hefner to start Playboy magazine with Crowley as one of the original Playmates. Temptation accomplished, Crowley moved on.
> 
> Following the Armadidn't, Crowley suddenly becomes aware of three facts-
> 
> Fact #1: The issue that features Crowley's centerfold is one of the rarest and most highly sought after issues that could fetch several thousand dollars at auction.
> 
> Fact #2: The reason for its rarity is that Aziraphale -- in his quest to thwart all of Hell's wiles -- has gotten hold of almost every single issue he could find.
> 
> Fact #3: Despite Aziraphale's insistence that he only did it in the name of Heaven, he's never actually destroyed those issues. He, in fact, keeps them in immaculate condition in his shop."

It took Aziraphale nearly three weeks before he realized that part of his collection was missing.  
  
Crowley had been rather restless since they had cut ties with their respective offices. He was at loose ends, thrumming with energy, but with no clear goal to direct it into. This led to him getting half a dozen new plants, following Aziraphale to every restaurant within a twenty-mile radius, and most notably, experimenting with his look.  
  
On that particular day, Crowley had walked into his bookshop looking like she had just stepped out of a 1950s television commercial, if said commercial was about how to clean blood from carpets. She stood there in a black frock, three-inch heels, a string of pearls around her neck. She must have used a miracle for her hair because it now fell in loose curls around her shoulders. Aziraphale knew she must be wearing a girdle. Whether woman-shaped or man-shaped, Crowley’s body always tended towards skinny and straight. There was no way she could have achieved those hips on her own.  
  
“What do you think, angel?” She asked. “I forgot I still had this dress. Found it in the back of my closet.”  
  
“You look very lovely, my dear.” Goodness, was that his voice? It sounded so rough. Aziraphale swallowed thickly, but Crowley didn’t seem to notice.  
  
Crowley flashed him a smile. “Are you ready to go?”  
  
Dinner was a slow, torturous affair. Aziraphale barely tasted the custard, too distracted by the way Crowley ran her fingers through her red curls. He ignored the hurt look in her eyes when he had begged off their usual after dinner drink and sent her home. He couldn’t handle it right now. He needed to get back to his bookshop, to his collection, he needed--  
  
Oh no.  
  
In the back room there was a safe and in this safe held 200 copies of _Playboy_ magazine, the January 1954 issue. At least, it did. Now it contained 200 copies of _Boy’s Life_ magazine with such fascinating articles as how to start a fire and what to take when camping.  
  
This was Adam’s fault.  
  
Aziraphale slowly closed the safe. It was fine. He should have destroyed them years ago. That’s what he was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Thwart the wiles of Hell. Or, well, Crowley. Because it _was_ entirely Crowley’s own idea. He sincerely doubted that Hell had personally asked Crowley to pose in _Playboy_ magazine.  
  
He hadn’t seen Crowley since he’d rescued him from that church in 1941. Aziraphale tried not to think about it. Not about how he suddenly appeared, braving sacred ground just to save him. Not about the way he had looked when he had handed him his books. No, he put it firmly out of his head, and if Crowley somehow managed to snake into his thoughts anyway, Aziraphale put it down to demonic influence. Twelve years had passed and during a stroll one fine winter’s day he happened to come upon two youths gaggling over a magazine. He smiled indulgently as he passed, giving it a cursery glance. He had expected to see a Superman comic or a _Boy’s Life_ article.  
  
Not a picture of Crowley.  
  
Crowley smiled coyly up at the reader, her eyes inscrutable behind her dark sunglasses. She was lying on her back in front of a roaring fire, her black sweater pushed up to her armpits, revealing two perfectly round breasts to feast upon. Aziraphale’s first thought was, _Well, that’s rather silly, to be wearing just a sweater and not anything else._ But his eyes couldn’t help but follow the line of pale flesh, across the mound of her breast, down the dip of her stomach, to where they were cut off so abruptly by the sharp rise of her knee, her leg crooked up to hide the rest of her from view.  
  
He came suddenly back to himself and snatched the magazine from the two thirteen year olds, giving them a good scolding as he did. Dear God, just how many of these were in circulation. How many people had seen Crowley like... like _that_? It was simply unacceptable! The nerve of Crowley, corrupting so many people with such salacious pictures. It was his duty to protect the world from her evil plots, and if that meant hunting down every single issue then that was what he would do.  
  
Of course, he should have destroyed them afterwards, but Aziraphale could never bring himself to do that. And if he sometimes took one out to look over it every few years, well that was only to remind himself of the evil Crowley was capable of.  
  
Nevermind. What’s done is done. Aziraphale didn’t need those old magazines anymore. He could see Crowley whenever he wanted. Granted, it was always with her clothes on, but... but that was the way it should be. He could not allow himself to think differently.  
  
“Angel, look!”  
  
It had started out as a normal day. Aziraphale had just closed the shop thirty minutes after opening it when Crowley had come in, waving her phone around. Aziraphale could just catch a glimpse of a woman, a black sweater, and a roaring fire before Crowley yanked it away so that she could read the accompanying text. “The January 1954 issue of _Playboy_ magazine is exceedingly rare. Only twelve copies are known to still exist, but last week a janitor found 200 copies of this issue all in mint condition in a garbage bin outside Soho. They are to go up on auction where they are expected to fetch several thousand dollars.” She grinned up at him. “I had no idea.”  
  
She seemed to be waiting for something, but Aziraphale was at a loss for his words. His collection. _His_ collection was about to be sold.  
  
Crowley lifted up the phone to his face again. “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. Take a look at the centerfold. Look familiar?”  
  
Oh, it definitely looked familiar. He remembered every inch of that picture and now someone else was going to have it, to be passed around so many grubby hands...  
  
Crowley frowned. “Are you alright, angel?”  
  
“Fine.” The word strangled in his throat.  
  
Crowley quickly put her phone away and even with the sunglasses he could tell she was avoiding his eyes. “Yes, well, it was just a small temptation. Something to do to get Hell off my back. Of course, I don’t do temptations anymore. Just feeling a little nostalgic, I suppose. Where do you want to go for lunch?”  
  
“Another time, my dear.”  
  
Crowley bit her lip, the red lipstick marring her teeth. “Oh, alright then. Another time. Ciao.”  
  
Aziraphale waited until he heard the Bentley drive off before making a mad dash out of the bookstore.

* * *

Stealing was a sin, but Aziraphale was able to rationalize it away by insisting that he was only doing it to save the populace at large, and, also, he owned them first _so there_. He didn’t have anyway to carry them except to shove them into a large bag and he silently mourned the bent pages and broken spines that would inevitably occur. As he snuck out of the auction house he wondered what tomorrow’s headline would read: “200 Dirty Magazines Stolen from Prestigious Auction.”  
  
Aziraphale had only just gotten the bag safely inside the bookstore when he heard a knock.  
  
The angel froze. He didn’t even breathe. Maybe if he quiet enough--  
  
Crowley opened the door, a bottle of wine in hand. “I know you couldn’t do dinner, but I thought you might still be up for the after drinks.” She paused and stared at the enormous sack that squatted in front of his feet. He looked like a very nervous Santa Claus. “What is _that_?”  
  
“Oh, it’s nothing, just doing some cleaning--”  
  
Crowley peeked inside. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, “_Angel_…"  
  
Aziraphale twisted his hands. “I couldn’t let them go up for sale!”  
  
“Why not? There are loads of girly magazines out there in the world.”  
  
“Yes, but they don’t have pictures of _you_ in them!” He protested. “I don’t want anyone else to see you like that!”  
  
“‘Anyone else’?” She asked, a slow, creeping, sharp-toothed smile spread across her face. “Just you then?”  
  
“I, uh--”  
  
Crowley snapped her fingers. The black frock was gone and in its place was a sweater. Just a sweater. Her fingers tugged at the hem. It just barely brushed the tops of her thighs. Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Would you like to see the real thing?” Her voice shook slightly. She was nervous.  
  
He was too.  
  
Aziraphale reached out and touched the sweater, letting his fingers run down the wrinkles. “You were on your back in the picture.”  
  
Crowley nodded and moved into the backroom. She laid down on the couch, her hands by her face. “Like this, wasn’t it?”  
  
“No, your arms were up.”  
  
She smiled and lifted them, letting them drape over the back of the armrest. The sweater rose and Aziraphale could finally see the red patch of hair that had been so long blocked from view. “Your sweater had been pushed up.”  
  
This time she didn’t move. She smiled and waited. Aziraphale stepped forward and traced his hand along her calf, gently tugging it upward so that her foot was braced against the cushion. It continued along its path, across the plains of her thigh and hip, the dip of her waist, until it reached her sweater. He pushed it up, allowing his hands to brush against her breasts. Crowley shuddered against him, a moan escaping from between her lips. She blushed hotly at the noise and tried to cover it up by asking, in that sarcastic voice of hers, “How’s the view?”  
  
Aziraphale reached up and took the sunglasses from her face. She blinked up at him, pupils blown wide until the slits were almost perfect circles. “Quite nice, my dear.”  
  
Crowley snorted. “‘Quite nice’! I—oh!”  
  
Aziraphale leaned over and kissed the tip of one breast, his tongue lathing around her nipple. Crowley let out a long, deep moan as Aziraphale’s lips went in the opposite direction of his fingers, down, down, down. He gripped the back of her thighs and pulled her forward so that her ass was up against the armrest. The sudden movement had shoved her sweater so far up that it was now halfway up her arms and covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock, the rest of her face veiled in black, fuzzy wool. Aziraphale threw her a smirk before leaning forward to taste her center.  
  
She shrieked this time, her hands flying away from the armrest to bury into his hair. Her thighs shook around his ears as he delved deeper into her, tracing his tongue around her clit. His fingers abandoned their position to dip between her folds, teasing at her entrance before one of them plunged inside. His focus was so completely fixated on her -- on her taste, her skin, her cries -- that any Effort on his part was forgotten about. Her hips pushed forward and Aziraphale moved with it, rocking forward and back with her as he stroked inside. He could feel her ankles hook themselves behind his head and there was strangled cry and a gush of slick staining his fingers and chin.  
  
Aziraphale lifted his head and looked down at where she was splayed out, her sweat-soaked curls twisting around her head. Her eyes were wide and unblinking where they stared at the ceiling. “You must have studied that picture a lot,” she said.  
  
Aziraphale blushed, despite the fact that his face was only centimeters from her pussy, his finger still curled within her. “I might have... collected a few over the years, here and there.”  
  
“You know, Hefner insisted on a whole photoshoot. Lots of different positions, lots of outfits.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I still have the negatives.”  
  
_Oh._


End file.
